


Truth or Something Like It: the Making of Roy Mustang

by stickmarionette



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Backstory, Canon - First Anime, Gen, Ishval, POV Second Person, episode 25 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/pseuds/stickmarionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You were born amidst the summer storms during a particularly vicious downpour, sheltered from the howling wind by your father's comfortable manor house.</i>  The life and education of Roy Mustang, in six parts.</p><p>Written in 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth or Something Like It: the Making of Roy Mustang

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by bard_linn, kaitou_marina and blademistress. Originally written for the fma_eastside fic contest, gen category.

The makings of a great man is a fascinating study; the makings of a terrible one even more so. You have been called both on enough occasions for it to become believable, so the curiosity does not surprise you. There is a story to be told here, a great and terrible story, and there are people who can sense such things.

You have no intention of writing down the truth.

After all, there is no such thing as an unbiased judgement, and the dead cannot speak.

 

\--

_Kindling: Spark_

\--

 

You were born amidst the summer storms during a particularly vicious downpour, sheltered from the howling wind by your father's comfortable manor house.

"My son, my son…" said your mother, cradling you in her pale arms, her beautiful face flushed and drawn with exertion.

Your father said nothing. Even then, he was silent.

You were too young to see the hungry look in mother's eyes or the quiet satisfaction in father's, but it was no terrible loss. After all, these things would become constants for you in the years to come.

Roy Thomas Mustang was your name, Roy after your grandfather who had amassed the family fortune and Thomas after your uncle who was a well-regarded Major in the Amestrian military.

The course of your life had been determined before you took your first breath, before you uttered your first cry. And so it was to be for years, until the goals and ambitions of the family became your own, until you no longer questioned the course of your life.

You don't write any of this.

_'My family had been dedicated to the prosperity and greatness of Amestris for generations. Many of my relatives were officers in the military or part of the civil service, and I was proud to continue that tradition, years later.'_

Lies are so much more palatable.

 

-

_Kindling: Blaze_

-

 

You were a precocious, clever child, and had been told so continuously since before you could understand the words. Nobody was surprised, your father least of all. After all, you were the only child and on your thin shoulders rested the age-old responsibility of advancing the family. Your education was carried out with this in mind.

Having achieved some degree of prominence through wealth rather than cultural standing, your father wanted his heir to be a towering intellectual. So the rites of learning – reading, writing, gaining proficiency in languages both common and long dead – occupied your early existence, when others your age were building tree-houses and making childhood friends.

"He'll be a great scholar," said your father, in that quiet, inflectionless way of his. "It will be good for the family name.

Your mother shook her head, chuckling softly. "_My_ son can and will be a great soldier - a leader among men. I know it."

Then father would gaze off into the distance to signal the end of the conversation while mother frowned and pursed her lips. They never had real chats, your parents, nor had you ever seen any signs of affection from one to the other. The only topic on which your father spoke to your mother at all was you.

For a long time, you thought that was the norm for a marriage.

You had never seen your father smile. He was always stoic and grave, speaking little unless it was to issue an order. Sometimes, when you sat at his knee and read with him, you could almost imagine that there was a bond between the two of you. Almost.

Your mother was a beautiful woman who adored you in a devouring way that was at odds with the rest of her aloof personality. You still remember the warmth of her body as she held you tightly, nails digging into your shoulders as horrible words fell from her rosebud lips in time with the tears that tracked their way past her cheeks.

"My boy…" she would whisper in her soft, melodious voice, "you must become great for me. Your father has no regard for me, none at all, but I don't need him when I have you."

You had no idea how to respond the first time, having had little social contact and no understanding of the infection that plagued her. Devoted to her as you were in your youthful worship, you stumbled upon the answer.

Your small hands could do little else other than wiping away her tears with a handkerchief, but you were clever enough to cover the rest with words.

"It's okay, mother. I'll do you proud," you said, attempting to steady your thin, childish voice. "I'll rule the country someday, and then no one would be able to hurt you."

Contrary to your expectations, mother did not tighten her grip on you and cry into your shoulder. She only smiled like a cat and stroked light fingers through your dark, dark hair.

"My little Furher..." she whispered lovingly, devouringly, before pressing a feather-light kiss to your mouth.

The softness of her form and the sweetness of her scent had become suddenly suffocating in that moment, for all that they'd been home and comfort in the years past.

Of course, she meant nothing by any of it – not the crying fits, not the quiet way in which she cursed your father's name and especially not when she accidentally hurt you when clutching too tight. She only wanted the best for you.

With time and adulthood you would come to understand her desperate unhappiness and forgive her manipulative, smothering affections.

With adulthood would also come the understanding that she'd never really loved you as passionately as she proclaimed.

You don't write any of this.

_'My father was a humble merchant who loved to read with me. He gave me a thorough home education to prepare me for serving my country. My mother was a beautiful, intelligent woman who told wonderful stories by my bedside and always inspired me on to greater things.'_

Lies are so much more palatable.

 

-

_Flame: Yellow_

-

 

Alchemy - like many other unorthodox aspects of your education – was advocated by your mother. There had been no alchemists in the family for many generations. Your father had only drabbled enough to know that he was no good. However, you grew up with the firm, deep-seated conviction that you were better than your forbearers, and capable of anything, anything at all, so it did not stop you.

By your early teens, you had learned enough of the arts and sciences to be utterly bored and finally broached the topic of trying alchemy with your father. He thought – quite rightly – that it was one of mother's little manipulations, but relented anyway, hoping to disrupt her alarming influence over you.

Mother found you the greatest teacher of alchemy around, a man who had graduated from the Academy but rejected State Certification, famous for his work with water.

Only the best for her little Furher.

Up until then, your interactions had been limited to the servants, tutors, your parents and select members of their social circle, none of whom were particularly interesting or intelligent. In other words, you had never met anyone like Edward Herman before.

The course of your life altered irretrievably the moment you saw his handsome face, thin lips turned up at the corners.

You had been prepared to bow and make a show of politeness, but in the heat of the moment you could only stare. Herman raised one eyebrow until you tore your eyes away, then he shrugged elegantly and stuck out his hand.

"We shall treat each other like gentleman, I think," he said with a charming smile.

You decided there and then that you wanted to learn how to make him like you the way he made you like him at first sight, because he was interesting the way no one else was.

So you shook his hand and said, smiling, "Call me Roy."

If your mother was the driving influence of your childhood, then Herman's shadow fell heavily over the teenage years. He wasn't only a teacher of alchemy – he also taught you many things about people, and about life.

If you spent your teenaged life trying to become him, it was only understandable.

Alchemy itself interested you and engaged your quick mind the way few things did. You liked the volatility of it, the concept of a visible change you could work with your own hands. It was hard work, but you persevered through the dry and academic basics.

What you really wanted was to reach the point when you could specialize. Herman had shown you his specialty once, when you had become frustrated with the endless reading, equations and basic array work.

"You're a fast learner, Roy," he had said with a quirky smile, touching a hand to the array on his wristband. "Soon you'll be able to do something like this."

You had stared open-mouthed as he made it rain.

It was customary for the student to choose a specialty similar to the teacher, so you eventually learned the basics of Herman's air-water array. However, your interest in the array did not extend to a wish to specialize. There was something else out there for you, and you knew it. Something more _alive_, something exciting and flashy.

As you scrutinized the many properties of hydrogen and oxygen, the primary components of the air-water array, it occurred to you –

_Something like_ fire.

Herman was silent and pensive as he listened to your excited descriptions of your plans to modify his array. Looking back, you often wondered if that had been a warning. At the time, you were far too consumed by the novelty and the challenge of the idea to notice.

It was just so simple and yet so perfect that you were drunk off your own brilliance for weeks, buried in piles of books, notes and calculations, neglecting to sleep or eat for days on end for the sake of the array.

When you finally emerged from the library, mother remarked that you looked like hell. For once, you didn't care.

It wasn't perfect – you still had to think of a way to make reliable sparks as a catalyst, and your control was in the words of Herman '_completely dreadful, Roy_', but you didn't care about that either.

The first time you made fire with a lighter and the salamander array and watched it dance and crackle, it felt like falling in love.

You were ecstatic that evening, rambling on and on about your ideas for making the sparks to a quiet, thoughtful Herman, who was nevertheless smiling indulgently.

When you had finally run out of steam, he took hold of your shoulders and stared into your eyes, deadly serious.

"Promise me something, Roy."

You didn't hesitate. "Anything, Mr Herman."

"Don't become a State Alchemist."

You wanted to protest, because why should you not be recognised for your talents? "I - "

The pleading look in Herman's intent blue eyes stopped you short. You knew even back then that there was a reason he never became a State Alchemist. You didn't understand it at the time and would not for many years, but it was enough that you trusted him implicitly.

"Okay."

Somehow, you never connected Herman's reluctance with the civil war raging outside your quiet and sheltered existence.

Physically, you grew quickly without noticing or particularly caring, at least until the day you finally noticed that your mother had to strain up to brush your hair.

That was when you decided to leave for the Officer's Academy.

You had always known that was where you were headed – it was ingrained from your mother's whispered grievances and your father's many stories.

"It'll be good for you," father had said pensively when you worked up the courage to tell him. Of course, what he really meant by '_you_' was '_us_', the family. It would take you a while longer to understand that.

Herman disapproved completely, but you knew of his distaste for the military and didn't think too much on it. Wasn't it enough that you were heeding his warnings about the State Alchemists and opting to go the regular route into the military instead?

It is the nature of youth to think that they are invincible and endlessly lucky, and so you never contemplated being sent into battle. Even if you did, it was only in the most abstract terms, coated by your yearning for recognition and your endless ambitions.

Herman said nothing, perhaps because he understood. He simply packed up and left one day, leaving only an envelope.

You opened it with a strange sense of trepidation and found two items. One was a short note.

_My dearest student:_

_You have learnt all that I can teach you, and no doubt will go further in life than I have. Remember what I said the first time. Good luck._

The other was a pair of white gloves.

You pulled one on, feeling the rough texture of it where flint had been sewn into the fabric. The array was reproduced perfectly on the back. It was one of the ideas you had bought up with Herman in that first, excited discussion, but you had decided to discard it for other methods. You had no idea he even remembered the concept.

When your mother tilted her head up to kiss you goodbye, you turned so that it landed on your cheek instead, thinking of Herman's quirky smile.

You don't write any of this.

_'I began studying alchemy under the direction of the famous alchemist Edward Herman in my teenage years with the intention of entering the military and becoming certified later.'_

Lies are so much more palatable.

 

-

_Flame: Red_

-

 

You passed the entrance exams with flying colours and to absolutely nobody's surprise. That was the easy part.

The Academy was a shock at first, and then a challenge.

It was a shock because you had never interacted with so many different people in such a large environment before, and it was difficult in ways you never anticipated before arriving.

However, you had always found the difficult parts of any problem to be the most interesting, and this was no exception. In that way, the Academy presented a challenge.

On your first day, you were nobody – a mere junior student, noticed only by those who had either heard of your entrance results or liked what they saw in your fine features. Herman's easy charm came to mind at that, and you vowed that you would not be 'nobody' for long.

As calculating as your eventual move for fame and notoriety in the Academy was, it did not happen overnight. Your social skills had been stifled up to that point by limited outside contact, and there was something you desperately needed but did not even know of - a friend.

Said friend came in the form of the other new student who came to sit by your side that very first lunchtime at the cafeteria. His name was Maes Hughes, he was your new room mate and by the way did you know that he was the only one who beat your Logic and Reasoning score on the entrance exams?

You spent a good while staring at the tall, dark-haired young man as he rambled on, slightly overwhelmed by his enthusiasm – at least until he got to the exam part.

"That's not a very nice thing to say," you said mildly, offended at the implications.

Hughes only smiled widely, green eyes sparkling. "Come on, don't be so serious. I meant nothing by it."

He looked so sincere and friendly that you had to believe him. "All right."

Hughes leaned in to peer at his face for a moment, pulling back and holding out a hand when he was satisfied that you weren't angry.

"You really need to lighten up a little. Come on, let's at least try to get along."

You looked down at the proffered hand. It was large, strong-looking and had tell-tale calluses that could not have been formed by the frequent use of a pen.

Hughes was obnoxious but also intelligent, well-meaning and interesting, and that decided it for you.

Your hand passed the arrayed glove on its way out of your pocket, but you didn't pause. His hand was warm in yours as you shook it firmly.

That handshake was the beginning of everything between the two of you, although you had no idea at the time.

Time at the academy passed in a blur of study, basic army training, alchemical research, and increasingly large numbers of women. The latter you enjoyed for the sport of the chase as much as everything else that came with it, and although emotional engagements sometimes threatened, they never really materialized.

Any room there may have been for emotional attachment when the day's work was done went instead to Maes, who had become your first real friend. He was still occasionally annoying, but you figured that anyone you spent at least twelve hours a day with would be. He was also smart, resourceful and a genuinely warm person, which was more important.

Maes was also completely dumbfounded by your gaggles of female admirers. Once he had turned to you and said, amazed, "I have no idea what they see in you."

You smirked at that, but only a little. "Nonsense. I've got a bright future ahead of me, am perfectly charming, not to mention good-looking and intelligent. Of course women like me."

"I don't get it," Maes had said, turning away with a shake of his head. "You're the most emotionally tone-deaf person I've ever met."

He was right, of course. Maes often was about these things.

You eventually met other alchemists, like Kimbley with the long hair and funny first name, who was shockingly callous but also terribly brilliant. Looking back, you like to think that it was only collective talent that drew the two of you together, nothing else.

Whatever the reason, though, Kimbley became something that could almost be called a friend. Over time you even learned to scoff or smirk at his occasional off-colour, childish remarks, although he never stopped being unnerving.

His eyes were frighteningly dead, even back then.

One of the things you frequently disagreed about was State Certification. Kimbley planned to take the exams as soon as possible, but you intended to keep your promise to Herman.

"I don't need the money," you would say when pressed. "And we'll be serving before long anyway, why rush it?"

The truth was that even within the confined environment of the Academy, horror stories of the war still raging outside had began filtering in, and many were no longer looking forward to graduation. You were beginning to confront the possibility of being sent to the front.

You thought you could handle it, at the time. There was just no need to rush out there.

All that changed the day Kimbley burst into your dorm room, eyes bright with uncharacteristic excitement, and banished a piece of paper in your face.

"Look at that. Read that and then tell me you don't want to be Certified."

_All State Alchemists, whether civilian or military, shall from this day onwards hold the default rank of Major by decree of the Furher King Bradley._

There was more, but your eyes were drawn to that passage alone, just as Kimbley intended.

It was a bribe, and not a subtle one – you could see that straight away. Recognising it as such didn't make the temptation any easier to shake off. It would take even the top graduates from the officer's academy years, not to mention insane amounts of good luck, to climb to Major.

With this…with this, it would be easy. As long as you passed the exams, you could join the enlisted ranks as a Major straight away.

"I…"

Kimbley grinned. "Come on, I know you're tempted. How about it?"

"Give me some time to think about it," you said, but it was a meek, last ditch attempt at delay, and you both knew it. From the very first moment your resolve wavered in the face of temptation, it was all over.

You both passed the exams, of course. At the interview, they asked you why you wanted to be a State Alchemist.

"To better serve our country and people," you said without missing a beat.

In accordance with this declaration, when they asked you how you would feel if called upon to serve at the front, you expressed particular enthusiasm for the idea. In truth, you had no compulsion or inclination towards serving your country back then. The real reason was much more pragmatic and calculated.

It was difficult to advance quickly through the ranks with a desk job, after all. Such were the pettiness of your youthful concerns.

In all fairness, you were ensnared by that old paradox, the one that dictated that it was impossible for anyone who had not been to war to make a good, informed decision about whether or not they were suitable for it.

Still, much of it was blind ambition. Far too much, and it took the realities of the Ishval war, a few months later, to make you understand just how futile such thoughts were.

While you sat behind a desk, bored out of your mind, Maes had graduated from the Academy with top marks and been granted a choice in what he wanted to do. He opted out of going to the war front, instead choosing to stay at Central working a desk job for Intelligence.

In hindsight, it was one of the best pieces of decision-making you had ever seen from Maes. The frontlines were no place for a man who was just then completely besotted with his new girlfriend and fundamentally unsuited to killing.

Maes was increasingly becoming worried for your safety. Working at Intelligence had given him access to rumours of recent high-level decision making, and those rumours were ominous.

It could perhaps be considered a stroke of luck that you were forewarned this way of what was to come, although no one could anticipate the extent to which it would go.

Seven years into the Ishval conflict, the Furher put out a decree forcibly enlisting all State Alchemists. Those who had specialities that could be used in the war were placed at the front. Those who had specialities that could be used as a weapon were ordered to do so.

All the State Alchemists were interviewed by Colonel Gran to assess their suitability as human weapons.

He had looked straight through you, eyes narrowed. "What can you do to kill people?"

You showed him the same thing you had show the State Alchemist examination board – your flames, burning pure and bright and beautiful.

However, they did not inspire the same sense of triumphant pride this time, only a creeping sense of terror and dread.

You don't write any of this.

_'I took the State Alchemist examinations in my last year at the Academy, heeding the call to serve our great nation. In the last year of the Ishval conflict, I was called upon to serve in my capacity as a State Alchemist to assist in ending the war.'_

Lies are so much more palatable.

 

-

_Flame: Blue_

-

 

Killing with alchemy was harder than you expected it to be, somehow more personal and horrifying than the mechanical efficiency of a gun would be, or so you thought.

It was the hardest thing you had ever done, that first time, facing down a child with a deadly weapon.

The irony of it escaped you completely in the heat of the moment, but it would come back to haunt you later. After all, wasn't that what you were as well? Only a child inside, really, welding a deadly weapon though you did not understand its consequences.

It was so hard to look down into that frightened face and see nothing but a dangerous adversary just because it came with an automatic weapon; hard to put away your own inherent terror and try to find a way to defuse the situation; impossible to think of snapping your fingers.

In the end, it didn't involve thinking at all, only pure survival instinct. You only realized that you had crossed that one sacred line as the white noise in your mind receded and the stench of burning flesh filled your nostrils.

Then your legs gave out.

Afterwards, as you curled up, shivering on your bunk despite the desert heat, Kimbley strode in. You winced mentally, not wanting someone like him to see you in such a state, but his gaze passed straight through you. He looked terrible – eyes unfocused, bruised, and splattered with blood.

"Kimbley?"

You instantly had cause to regret the concern that had made you attract his attention, as lamp-yellow eyes flared to life, boring into you and Kimbley smiled, baring sharp teeth.

That was the first time you had seen what true madness looked like. You flinched away, fear flashing through your expression before you could contain it, but he only laughed sharply and stared down at his blood-stained hands.

"You know, Mustang, I think I've found my true calling in life."

You had to close your eyes and turn away at that, but strangely it became a source of strength in the coming days. Whenever the guilt and the memories threatened to devour you, you would recall those words. At least you were not such a monster. Not just yet.

Eventually, things like the colour of blood spilled on desert sands, the sight of mangled children, and the weight of a companion's body on your shoulders as you struggled to get to safety became your new, harsh reality, dispelling all thoughts other than obedience and survival.

You like to think that the experience was a necessary although painful wake-up call and preparation for what was still to come, although not everyone held up under it – comparatively speaking - as well as you did.

In retrospect, it probably should not have surprised you that Kimbley was kept as a human weapon just like you, despite his now-famous instability. He was clearly no longer fit to be a mere foot soldier, let alone a Major with a deadly mandate.

Kimbley was going completely insane, and no one knew what to do about it. More accurately, no one would do anything about it. The officers in charge were happy as long as he continued to kill like he was directed to, and that he did with ruthless efficiency and chilling laughter.

You were glad to get away from him and his madness as often as you could, longing for peace and quiet and irrationally afraid that the disease which plagued him was infectious. He was no longer the Kimbley you had known at the Academy, who at least clung onto some last vestiges of sanity, and that thought alone – that this horrible war could tip someone over the edge like that – was terrifying.

It was around this time that you made the acquaintance of Alex Louis Armstrong, and looking back, you had to admit that it was an incredible stroke of fortune. The man was unusually perceptive and an eccentric, but he was also endlessly honourable. That honour would become very convenient in the years to come.

It was also on display the first time you met.

You had seen each other before, of course – there weren't that many combat alchemists around, but he had been deployed in a different area for a while. More to the point, you knew each other by reputation, and that made things easier.

You had simply stumbled into what passed for alchemists' dining tent one day, the sharp pain in your stomach rousing you from the escape of alchemy books, and he wordlessly offered you half his food.

You accepted, because you recognised him from the gauntlets on his wrists, and because you were frankly too hungry to care.

After the food had been devoured, he sat back and regarded you, eyes intent. You remember being impressed that such a large man could have such a quiet, unassuming presence.

"You're...the Strong Arm Alchemist."

"I am Alex Louis Armstrong," he said, inclining his head. "How is Ishval treating you, Flame Alchemist?"

You laughed hollowly. "Roy Mustang, please. And I'm as well as can be expected these days."

He gave you an oddly penetrating look at that, eyebrows drawing downwards in a frown. "You're different from what they say."

That got your attention. "What are they saying about me?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes," you said without hesitation, holding his gaze.

He looked away first, clasping his gauntleted hands together and clearly uncomfortable. "You have quite the reputation as a ruthlessly effective combat alchemist."

The feeling of your gloves against your skin had been a comfort for years, but now it seemed like torture as Herman's smile surfaced in your memory for the first time for many years.

You wanted to laugh, but it was clearly not the socially acceptable reaction in this situation, so you conjured up a weak smirk instead.

You met other alchemists too, like the kind-hearted Dr Marcoh, who was clearly not cut out for war. Given his non-combat specialty, you often wondered at his constant presence around Colonel Gran.

At least until the red stones.

You had naively thought that this particular war could have nothing worse in store for you, but you were wrong. You had not yet experienced the day State Alchemists were issued with red stones and ordered to take out as much as they could.

At the time you thought it the single most horrifying night of your life. If there was a hell on earth, that had to be it.

The first time you snapped your fingers in tandem with the poisonous glow of the stone, you levelled two city blocks. It began from there.

Mindlessly you destroyed and burned and killed through that night, moving to a different city when the one you had been deployed in was completely razed. The others did the same, no doubt, so that at dawn when you looked across the desert and saw nothing but burning wreckage, you finally understood.

This wasn't war. This was entirely wrong on so many different levels.

_This was genocide._

But somehow, worse was still to come, though you could not imagine it at the time, scrubbing your hands over and over when you were not curled up and shaking in bed.

Perhaps it was morally wrong to describe the murder of two people as worse than the death of hundreds of thousands, but for you, that was the unavoidable truth.

Gran's hard gaze on you, his harsh order as you tried to stop your hands from shaking; the frightened but defiant look in the eyes of the doctors; the way the blood had splattered over the photo of their little blonde daughter – these things are forever etched in your memory.

You had gotten smashed right after on cheap, potent alcohol, the kind some of the other State Alchemists made and kept around by the box-load, because you could not think of a way to live with yourself while sober.

It turned out that you couldn't live with yourself while drunk, either, but your suicide attempt was a pathetic one, all things considered. For one, you were far too terrified of death to pull the trigger. And then there was Dr Marcoh and his request.

Though the war had for all intents and purposes ended on that first horrific night with the red stones, some could not stop fighting. The seven year conflict had driven far too many beyond the point of no return.

Unfortunately Kimbley was one of them.

He was also most difficult to subdue, as he was a powerful combat alchemist and killed indiscriminately without hesitation. The extent of the destruction was truly getting out of hand by the time Colonel Gran assembled the State Alchemists and asked for volunteers to go hunt Kimbley down and subdue him.

To this day, you don't understand why you put your hand up.

It wasn't the opportunity for glory – the war years had weaned you off of that. You didn't even know what you were doing in the military anymore, nor much else. In those days, you hung dangerously between life and death, too afraid to die, too traumatized and guilty to live.

Maybe you just wanted something to do.

Whatever it was, you went out there with a special operations squad and a red stone. It was laughably easy, actually, because Kimbley was no match for you, crazed as he was.

You got two medals for that afternoon, in the end, not to mention a field-promotion to Lieutenant Colonel, to be verified once you were back in Central.

There was something terribly ironic about that, but you couldn't find it in yourself to laugh.

You don't write any of this.

_'The civil war was quickly settled once the State Alchemists stepped in and peace was finally achieved. I earned further honours in the last year of the conflict by subduing a rogue State Alchemist and enabling him to be put on trial for his crimes.'_

Lies are so much more palatable.

 

-

_Flame: White_

-

 

Your return to Central wasn't so much triumphant as quiet.

You could have gone back to your family, but you didn't. Mother and father wrote to you separately, but you burned the letters as you received them.

There was no point to it, after all.

In a daze, you thought of many things. Stupid things, like redemption and miracles and human transmutation, and how the latter could lead to the former two. You tried it because there was nothing else left to do.

You also wanted to die, but that was secondary.

In the end, you didn't go through with it. You were still afraid of death, but there were also better reasons to live – you had found yourself a new purpose, after the days and nights of agonising over whether you were fit to live.

You told Maes your secret proudly, because he was the only one you let into your dorm and into your heart.

_"I'm going to become Furher. I will change how this country runs. That is the only thing I can do."_

He understood, of course. Maes always did.

You slept with a gun now, instead of the women you ritually courted. One had to be careful when one was planning treason, after all.

In the beginning there was only you and Maes. Slowly, though, more people rallied to you and your cause. The tough, beautiful and – as it turned out - loyal sharpshooter who had one day walked up to him and demanded a transfer into his unit; the chain-smoking sniper who was far more intelligent and sharp than he looked; and many others – they gathered around you and your fool's cause like moths to a flame.

And then you went to a small backwater town in the east where the symbol of your guilt still lived and met the brothers. The unstoppable, golden boy, fallen from grace, and his beloved, disembodied brother – they would come to define your life in the years to come.

You just didn't know it yet.

You don't write any of this.

 

-

 

Eventually, it becomes difficult to separate the truth from the lies you tell. At this point you persist.

Eventually, you find that some truths are difficult to conceal, and some lies are impossible. At this point you have to decide.

It ends with a snap of your fingers.

Paper burns easily, and you watch with a bitter smile as it crumbles into dust.

 

_fin._


End file.
